


Haunt

by KyeAbove



Series: The Reinforcement Of Agony AU [74]
Category: Bendy and the Ink Machine
Genre: Amnesia, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-30
Updated: 2018-05-30
Packaged: 2019-05-16 06:45:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14806337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KyeAbove/pseuds/KyeAbove
Summary: Agony:HellThe Prophet listens to a tape. One that's more than just banjo music.





	Haunt

~Unknown~

* * *

 

In truth, there were only two things in life that mattered, despite what The Prophet sometimes did: music, and his Lord. Even the first thing was up in the air. Otherwise, there was no point in actively pressuring anything.

That didn’t mean The Prophet wasn’t often distracted by all sorts of things. For example, he’d once spent hours going over madness made by someone named ‘Sammy Lawrence’. He became lost in recordings, messy scribbles and half-plotted stories. Poems too, many unfinished, telling more about the sad man who wrote them than his stories did. Music as well, that The Prophet was able to play with ease.

His lord hadn’t come for him in that time, so The Prophet didn’t think he’d strayed too far from his destined path.

Other times, he’d been distracted by that pool table he didn’t know the proper rules for. By that heathen. And everything new he came across. So many distractions, and so much wasted time. The Prophet was glad that he hadn’t angered his Lord too much with his transgressions.

He'd started to avoid the tape recorders, finding their messages to be confusing. Why would he care if that sad writer was mad if someone lost their keys, or about all those other voices' problems? They were nothing to him.

It was pure boredom that made him press the play button on the recorder he found. Nothing more.

_“Hello…”_

The Prophet shuddered at the voice. Something wasn’t right about it. No, that wasn’t the word. It was...familiar. Too familiar.

 _“I was going to play the fiddle today, but Jack stole the good one. You know, the one that’s tuned a little differently but somehow manages to sound nice?”_ The speaker laughed, the audio crackling along. _“I love Jack, I really do.”_

Jack was not a name The Prophet knew, but if he played the fiddle, played music, than maybe he and The Prophet could be friends. Was this speaker a musician too? It seemed like it.

 _“So, instead, I’m going to play the banjo.”_ The Prophet gasped, and grinned under his mask. Banjos were his favourite instrument. _“I’m rather good at it, but don’t tell anyone in the orchestra. They’re already jealous of me. If they knew all the instruments I could play they’d find me even more annoying.”_

The speaker started strumming, and the song seemed familiar. As familiar as the voice was. It was played for some time, while the speaker stayed silent, until it suddenly stopped. The Prophet was disappointed in that.

 _“Oh, one moment.”_ The speaker said, and there was a dragging of a glass and a gulp. The speaker put the glass back down. _“You can yell at me for drinking at work another day. If anything, Joey drove me to it.”_

The speaker went back to playing the song, and The Prophet pulled the recorder close, holding it until the song reached its natural end. How The Prophet knew it was really the end, he wasn’t sure.

 _“I hope you liked this.”_ The speaker said, his speech slurred a little now. _“I just want to say I always loved you.”_

Before The Prophet knew that was the end, a claw went through the recorder, and The Prophet was pulled from his haunted stupor.

The Prophet starred up at his Lord, and his Lord’s smile seemed threatening in this lightening.

“I’m sorry.” The Prophet muttered, dropping the broken recorder and bowing before his Lord. “I got distracted again.

“See that it doesn’t happen again. We have work to do.” His Lord replied, seething with anger.

“Of course, my Lord.”

His Lord lumbered off, and The Prophet followed.

But The Prophet paused, and turned back around to stare at the broken recorder, briefly. The Prophet felt saddened by its destruction, but he wasn’t sure why as he turned away once again.

 _That sounded far too much like you._ It didn't sound too much the same, but that was the only connection The Prophet could make. But that would be silly for it to be his voice! The Prophet had only ever loved his Lord, and Henry-

Who was Henry?

The Prophet had never met a Henry.

Henry wasn’t music, and he wasn’t The Prophet’s Lord, so he didn’t matter. Henry didn’t matter, despite the loss he made The Prophet feel just by thinking his name.

The Prophet eventually returned and grabbed the thankfully undamaged tape inside the broken recorder, but that was just for the music it offered. Nothing more.

**Author's Note:**

> Imagine being so far gone you don't fully recognize your own brother's voice. Or your own human name.


End file.
